


blackbird & starling

by wandr



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 19th Century, Alternate Universe- The Woods, Books, Fairy Tale Elements, Fluff and Angst, Implied Supernatural, Isolation, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Past Character Death, brief mentions of blood/animal hunting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-11-08 03:47:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11073420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wandr/pseuds/wandr
Summary: Wonwoo will never get used to the silence that blankets the woods in the early morning. There’s a certain eeriness about it, broken only by the chorus of birds that come with the rising sun.Fairy tale-esque AU.





	blackbird & starling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xiao](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xiao/gifts).



> woo here we are!  
>   
> a massive thank you to salma and michelle for beta'ing and your endless support! ilu guys and very much appreciate the time you took to shift through.... /this/  
>   
> to soonwoonet: ilu guys so much! i love our supportive lil snwu fam and am so grateful for all of the words of encouragement and kindness you provided throughout this event. thank you to cat & the soonwoonet team for organising this! it was a long two months but i really enjoyed myself and am proud of what i managed to create.  
>   
> so... ANYWAY I HOPE YOU ENJOY

  
Somewhere in the woods, between thickets and thorns, foliage and fauna, a child was running.  
  
Thin limbs pushed his small body through the thickening evening air, soles tired and bare against the coarse autumn undergrowth. Smothered sounds surrounded him, heartbeats in the dark. There was a shuffle above and his head jerked up— but only dreary trees rustled overhead; a blackbird cried somewhere within the darkness— and he twisted his head down, weary, promising the shadows he’d never look to the skies again.  
  
A breeze slithered through the dusk, and the musk of strange creatures carried to his nose; the scent sickening, overwhelming. Familiar. An image quietly slipped into his running mind. It crackled, and then there was the warmth of the fire on his cheeks; long, sweet-scented hair, soft arms that bundled him close. It was cozy, complete. He shifted to reach for her face, mother’s embrace.  
  
A crisp _snap_ — the fabric of his little beige top snagged on a branch and he was pulled back, ankle twisting as he fell to the dirt. A red pain shot through his foot to his spine and he gasped, eyes round like the silver frames slipping off his face, the round of his mouth that writhed in the dark. He cried out her name and the echo carried between shadowed trees— up scratchy bark— reached the gaps in leafy canopies— and stopped.  
  
  


***

   _Summer;_

Deep in the woods, in a grassy clearing encased by trees, there is a small cobblestone cottage. Inside, a spectacled young man is tinkering away.  
  
Wonwoo can barely consider the shoebox-sized room he sits in to be a workshop. Scrap pieces of wire and metal litter the dusty, dingy space, with only a square window at the end of the room, behind his workbench, to let in air and light. In one corner of the room, an anvil and a crumbling fireplace sit— a shabby makeshift furnace, but it does its job— and in the other is a musty wooden bookcase, cramped and cobwebbed. Wonwoo uses a thick, tea-stained hardcover to prop up the wonky leg of his stool this time. He’ll swap it out for another book when the friction wears the material down to its tissue, to its bones, brittle.  
  
He sits on his bench, tinkering with one of his recent contraptions. It’s a heavy iron trap, designed to clamp onto the larger animals that roam the woods by their thigh; a sharp jaw that snaps tight with the faintest brush. It can catch wild goats and reindeer, definitely— even young elk if he’s lucky— but not bears. No, definitely not: they're far too big.  
  
He uses the corner of his brown top to wipe some grease off of the chain-links. After fixing the final spring in place he sets it down, smiling, bright and triumphant. It might be one of his best works yet. He pulls his worn leather gloves off with a satisfied huff and pushes upwards off his stool— but the exertion of standing too quickly drops a heaviness onto his head and he leans his arms forwards on his workbench, dull stomach heaving, body dripping lead. He squeezes his eyes shut as if that’ll press the density away, silver frames slipping off with the action.  
  
Amidst the clattering of his glasses against his bench and his heartbeat against his temple, Wonwoo doesn’t notice the little white-speckled bird that is now perched on his window ledge. It peeps twice, glossy black head tilting as he jerks his head up for a breath.  
  
The afternoon air is crisp and clean. It’s a fresh glass of water, resuscitating, and Wonwoo breathes it all down. His eyes open to the bird tilting its head at him. He frowns, but after it peeps twice his lips quirk into a smile. Oh, you again, he thinks. What do you want this time? The bird hops about almost in greeting, off the window ledge and onto the workbench. He watches it hop across the dented table, over hammers and rusty nails, until it reaches his glasses.  
  
It’s a curious little bird. An interesting bird. At idleness, it only seems to be black-bodied with white speckles, but as its feathers catch the light of the fading sun they glimmer a dark green and indigo. A blackbird? No, they don’t have iridescent feathers: it must be a starling. How strange for it to be alone. Starlings are sociable creatures. They’re very common in the woods, noisy pests.  
  
Wonwoo jumps at a metal _clicking_ from below— the bird is pushing its beak against his glasses.  
  
His brows furrow. Then, he realises and laughs. The strange bird attempts to push his glasses towards his hand (an exchange: “give me more food”), but they barely move an inch and it lets out a defeated chirp. Wonwoo laughs again. Then, he stops to clear his throat. It takes a moment to recall the motions to form so that words sound out of his mouth.  
  
“Well, hi again. Aren’t you a funny creature? Thank you for my glasses.” He settles them back on his bumpy nose and ears. They’re wonky on his angular face in an endearing sort of way.  
  
“I suppose you’re back for dinner? I’m still growing, you know, Pa won’t be happy if you keep taking my food.” He zips to the kitchen anyway, where his dinner is simmering away in a black pot above a small fire. Spices and garlic, onion and leeks. A dense savoury aroma fills the air, seeping into every nook and cranny. Dinner is always best in the summertime, when his greens are crisper, biting, and his catches are abundant. Rabbit stew.  
  
He scoops a spilling handful of grains from a hessian sack and zips back to his workshop. Reaching out curved palms, he gently offers the pellets to the starling who hops right in.  
  
He breathes. It’s so, so light; almost weightless. If he closes his eyes, the only telltale signs that it’s there are the scratching of grains against his hands, the rustling of shuffling grit. It makes Wonwoo feel heavy in comparison, like his leather boots are bound at the ankle with iron legcuffs, chain-link and ball.  
  
The rustling slows. The starling looks up at him, and there’s almost a melancholy in its little black eyes. Something in the way they’re glossed over, a slight wistfulness in their shine. It peeps twice, grateful, a thank you of sorts, before spreading its delicate wings and flying away.  
  
  


«««

  
  
After Wonwoo’s mother died, the young boy had to learn to look after himself. It had happened all at once: for months after the incident his father would only lay in bed, still, and little Wonwoo would stand on his tip-toes, put his ear on his father’s chest to listen for the _thump, thump_. Wonwoo was only small, but taking care of his father and the woodland cottage made him mature at a fast pace. His father’s friends from town would bring sacks of potatoes and grains each week, complaining under their breaths about the tedious trek into the woods; but really, it was only natural for a herbalist to live amongst his craft.  
  
When his father recovered, slowly, somewhat, he busied himself with selling his medicines at the marketplace. He didn't have time to talk with his son as much as he used to, but they had to earn money to survive. Wonwoo stayed at home, taking care of the cottage and his vegetable patch, busying himself with bits and pieces of metal. His mother had loved to read and read with Wonwoo often, but without her, his learning remained stagnant— so he taught himself to tinker by scanning pictures of snares and traps on sepia pages, only able to understand every third word or so. His father’s friends had offered their homes so Wonwoo could grow up in town, around other children his age, but his father refused. No, definitely not. The world was a very dangerous place: it was far safer to live in the woods.  
  
The first time young Wonwoo caught a rabbit, with some pellets and a copper bowl shoddily propped up by a stick, he let out a gasp of excitement into the earthy woodland air. He still remembers the buzzing through his veins, adrenaline thick and coursing through his blood. The autumn leaves crunched like bones beneath his knees as he lifted the bowl up, so carefully, so slowly, peering underneath into the creature’s beady eyes.  
  
The rabbit didn’t struggle when he picked it up. Its fur was so light and soft, brushing like cotton against his palms. He felt the motion beneath its skin. Warm. Eventually, when he remembered why he caught the rabbit, he held back a choked sob.  
  
He let the rabbit go that day, watched it hop away into the gnarled trees that enclosed the woods. But he and his father slept with empty stomachs that night. So the second time, he didn’t.  
  
  


»»»

  
  
Wonwoo settles into bed early that evening. It doesn’t take very long to clean up one set of cutlery, the second spotless and gleaming next to a bowl of cold rabbit stew. A mug of the sweet tea his father blends for him (“drink it every day, Wonwoo, it's good for your health”) sits beside his dusty mattress on the floor. He sneezes at the steam that fills his nose and fogs up his glasses when he brings the mug to his face.  
  
The nightmare will be reappearing soon. Wonwoo has come to expect it— it returns at the same time each year, when the sun is lower in the sky and summer leaves wilt and turn brown— but he wakes up with heaving lungs and sweat in his palms regardless. When he was younger his father would rush to his room and rub circles onto his back upon hearing his screams, but nowadays they’re left to echo through the walls and windows of a cobblestone cottage until they dissipate into the leaves of midnight trees.  
  
He drinks his tea and closes his eyes.  
  
  


«««

  
  
“Ma, what’s next?”  
  
Wonwoo’s mother looked up from the garden bench she had been dozing in. Her young son was sitting on the autumn grass building leaf boats, sleeves scrunched, pink knees grazed with dirt. “Hm— Next? What do you mean, Wonwoo-yah?”  
  
He stared at her and blinked. “In the story. At the end you said the boys build a raft to leave the island. But you never said if they escape or not.”  
  
Chips and cracks indented her grinning face. “You find out in the second book, Wonwoo-yah. It’s called a cliffhanger. It keeps you interested, so you’ll keep reading.”  
  
He rolled the idea over in his young mind.  
  
“But we don’t have the next book.”  
  
“Because I haven’t bought it yet. I’m sure there’s a copy in the bookstore in town.”  
  
“Can you buy it? I want to read it, Ma.”  
  
She laughed. “I don’t know about that, it might be a bit difficult for you to read.”  
  
Wonwoo thought. “Then I’ll get better. Teach me and I’ll practise more.” He dropped a leaf boat into a filled bucket: his makeshift ocean, like the ones in the stories. “Please?”  
  
She reached to smooth her palm over Wonwoo’s cheek then, thin wrist clicking with the action. “Alright. If you study really hard I’ll go into town, buy the book for your eighth birthday. How about that?”  
  
The autumn breeze carried the sweet scent of her perfume through the air. It reached Wonwoo’s nose and he sneezed.  
  
“Okay!”  
  
  


»»»

  
  
Wonwoo will never get used to the silence that blankets the woods in the early morning. There’s a certain eeriness about it, broken only by the chorus of birds that come with the rising sun.  
  
He kneels at a bush at the edge of a glade, dew sticking to his boots and soaking through the black fabric at his knees. It’s the third and final of the traps he sets up each morning— he sets the bait and fixes the wire loop of the snare in place, body accustomed to the motions. Only one or two of the traps usually catch, which is fine. He only catches what he has to for him and his father to survive.  
  
He’s humming an old tune when the yell pierces the air.  
  
A man. And somewhere close by— behind him, to his right, no more than a quarter-mile away. Who? Wonwoo feels a thrum in his veins as the gears mesh and turn inside his mind.  
  
Then, something clicks into place. It makes his insides tatter and twist, a rag wrung dry.  
  
Pa?  
  
No— the pitch was too high, the tone too round at its edges; much unlike the low gravel of his father. His shoulders relax.  
  
Wonwoo gets up slowly, pushing his glasses back up his nose bridge.  
  
It’s not uncommon for people to pass through the woods. Along the outskirts, though Wonwoo doesn’t frequent the area often, the children of townspeople run about, collect wildflowers in bunches. And there’s an overgrown path that runs through the woods, half a mile or so from Wonwoo’s cottage, that connects his father’s town to the next one over. Sometimes Wonwoo hears passers-by from his workshop window: irritated shouts and cracking whips, crying horses and wooden carts bumping along in the distance. He’ll sink into his stool and focus on the metal in his hands.  
  
But this part of the woods is secluded. He’s never seen another person around here, save for his father gathering herbs and plants. No, there wouldn’t be any use for outsiders here: only insects and strange animals lurk amongst the tall and winding trees.  
  
His muscles move with hesitance to the vague area of the yell. It’s a dense area of the woods, trees high and towering and full. He peers between a bush and a thick cedar into the foliage. Brows furrow for a moment, subconscious acknowledging the area’s vague familiarity.  
  
Wonwoo almost misses him. He blends into the surrounding plants, the way his dark green cloak shrouds his entire head and body like an extra layer of skin. Wonwoo’s eyes catch the only area peeled back: the exposed calf he clutches through gloved hands, spilling lines of red, entrapped by— Oh.  
  
Wonwoo’s breath catches. His snare constricts the figure’s calf— it’s like a metal snake, the way it pinches and spits. It’s never caught a person before. How does that even work? Shouldn’t he have seen it? There’s a dull groan and Wonwoo freezes. What’s the man doing there anyway?  
  
He should leave him be. He could be dangerous. Very dangerous. A man of innocence wouldn’t frequent an area this deep in the woods— and it was his own fault for being careless.  
  
How did he get caught in the snare?  
  
Wonwoo lays a palm against the cedar’s trunk and attempts to grasp it as he does onto his streaming mind. He breathes. He breathes again, watching the movements of the cloaked figure.  
  
It’s difficult to see clearly through the density of green, but behind the foliage, inside the figure’s green hood, he can just make out a shadowed face. Only one side is visible, and straight— black?— hair sticks to his cheek. Wonwoo shifts. He’s a bit clearer now— his black fringe is hanging over his forehead, gaze lowered, focussed on the wet hands gripping his calf. His lips part, voice low and breathy. “Idiot, idiot—”  
  
He attempts to loosen the wire loop that constricts his calf, but Wonwoo knows it’s no use: he designed the wires to be difficult to detach. You have to twist the wires in a specific way, unlatch the loops with a certain carefulness and precision.  
  
The man still tries, even when his fingers begin to dig, breathing starting to quicken and hitch, voice jumping in pitch. But the wires are unyielding.  
  
Wonwoo remains as wooden as the tree trunk he is shrunken behind. The dryness of the bark beneath his palm is typical of the late-summer; typical in how it clings, unwaveringly at first, to its trunk. But under the weight of his flesh, though he doesn’t notice, it crumbles down into brown flakes that dust the fading grass beneath his feet.  
  
If you look above, it’s like the timeworn cedar trees stretch on for miles and miles. The sun is rising quickly now. Wonwoo can’t see it directly, but he sees its fingers nudging through the leaves of the tree tops, casting lines onto the trapped figure in the lifting darkness; and now he really can’t ignore the acid that’s churning in his gut, turning, burning his insides.  
  
For a moment in the woods, there is silence.  
  
Then, a step forward.  
  
“Do you need help?” It tumbles out all at once, breathless, like an infant’s first step. The trapped man freezes. For a moment, a wave of panic floods through Wonwoo’s body— perhaps he really is dangerous, just feigning distress— but his focus quickly shifts upon a clearer view of the figure’s face.  
  
Wonwoo takes in a breath. He’s younger than he thought. Definitely not a child, but not a man either— he looks far younger than Wonwoo’s father anyway, or any of his father’s friends that visit the cottage on occasion. There’s still softness in his cheeks, uncertainty in the way he holds his guard; a lot more like the meek young deer he often comes across than the fearless mothers that protect them.  
  
He’s looking up at Wonwoo fully now, fringe overgrown and hanging in clumped strands over his eyebrows. There are frays along the edges of his voice when he speaks.  
  
“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”  
  


*

  
Wonwoo has to blink a few times, every few minutes, to remind himself that there is, in fact, a person sitting on the stool in his workshop and no, he is definitely not hallucinating. That there is a person, who is not himself or his father, who is injured and who he had just carried on his back to his cottage. It must have been the adrenaline that gave strength to his lungs, the adrenaline that's still in his veins, a spur of the moment decision. He can still feel a ghost heaviness slumped against his back, dampness falling off soft cheeks and onto the shoulder of his top. Wonwoo scrubs the red off his hands with a damp cloth.  
  
He selects a variety of plants and herbs, held in knobby glass vials, from the crowded shelf in his father’s workshop. Placing each with care into a wicker basket, he brings them over to his own workshop.  
  
The boy’s calmed down a lot now. His cloak sits in a crumpled pile on the workbench behind him, long white shirt hanging off his young frame and brown pants bunched up on both legs to his knees. He curses himself under his breath, gaze flitting from his injured calf to the door at the sound of clinking glass.  
  
Upon entering the room Wonwoo realises again that, yes, there is actually a person sitting on his stool, in his workshop. And this person is staring at him, mouth hanging agape as if wanting to speak, but hesitating still. Wonwoo fixes his attention onto the basket in his hands, awkwardness hanging and sticking to the air like thick humidity.  
  
The boy finally speaks, voice round and cracked, when Wonwoo’s seated on the floor beside him, carefully picking out herbs from each vial. “I didn’t know you were a herbalist?”  
  
Why would he? Wonwoo’s brows furrow but he focusses on a vial filled with an opaque liquid. He unplugs its cork, brings it to the injury, and clears his throat. “Um— no, I’m not, but my Pa is.” He’s picked up many tricks from his father over the years, his accumulated knowledge enough to take care of the nicks and cuts he gets on occasion. “Though I’ve learnt a lot of medicinal recipes from him. This might sting, it’s to sterilize the wound.”  
  
The boy grimaces as the liquid flows onto his wound and tries to bite the pain into his downturned lips. Afterwards, Wonwoo picks some flat, dry leaves and lays them precisely along the wound’s circumference. Though his gaze is focussed on his hands, he can feel the heaviness of a stare pressing onto his head. Awkwardness is an unfamiliar sensation, something difficult to experience when you're always alone.  
  
“So,” Wonwoo splutters, raking through his brain, something to cut this weird tension, “How... old are you?” The boy lets out an airy laugh at that.  
  
“Almost eighteen. You?”  
  
That’s surprising. Wonwoo would have guessed a year or two younger, though he admittedly struggles with the concept of age. “So am I.”  
  
“Really?” Wonwoo notes how the boy’s mouth becomes an oval when he’s surprised. “We’re the same age? But you speak like an old man,” he says amusedly.  
  
Was that a compliment or an insult? Wonwoo feels something creeping onto his ears regardless. “I’m— I suppose that reflects my intelligence.” He smiles. “So… why weren’t you wearing shoes, by the way? In the woods?”  
  
The boy smiles sheepishly, looking slightly to the side. “Ah, well, you see… I felt like dipping my feet into the stream, the one near the cedar trees? So I was walking along… and... then I stepped into that trap.”  
  
Wonwoo shakes his head and clucks his tongue, though not unkindly. “You’re lucky I found you. That area’s rarely frequented. Come nighttime… there are a lot of dangerous animals around here.” A brief pause.  
  
Wonwoo gaze flits to the boy when he doesn’t respond. He’s faced forward, eyes fixed on nothing in particular. He notices Wonwoo looking and snaps out of his reverie. “Ah, yeah, thank you for that.”  
  
The next few minutes are silent, awkwardness still present but fizzling away gradually. Wonwoo lightly wraps a thin cloth around the boy's calf, tying the frayed ends into a neat knot. The boy speaks.  
  
“You read a lot?” He nods towards the crowded bookshelf in the corner of the workshop.  
  
“No,” Wonwoo swallows, “I used to, when I was younger.”  
  
“Me too. My parents forced me to back then. I hated it at first, but it was fun.” There’s a beat of silence. The boy looks down at him, tone conversational, “so… you don’t have enough time to read nowadays?”  
  
Wonwoo feels something creeping up his neck and onto his ears, and it's something flustering. “No, it’s not that.” He has a lot of time, too much time. His days are full only from tasks he makes up for himself, nurturing seedlings and tinkering metal. His days are full, but rarely fulfilling. “I... can’t read well. I only learnt the basics, when I was young.”  
  
He leaves it at that; leaves his words floating mid-air like the specks of dust that are carrying out his open window. It’s mid-morning now. Wonwoo wonders if his father will be back soon. What will he think about a stranger being let in? His father always told him to be careful of others. People are unpredictable: you never know when they’ll hurt you, leave you lying for the crows.  
  
That’s what his father told him. But something about this boy feels different. When Wonwoo looks up at him, he isn’t showing pity or disgust like he expected. His expression is unreadable.  
  
“Ah, I see.” Then something in his eyes lights up. “Why don’t I teach you? I used to help my younger brother out when he was learning.”  
  
Wonwoo wasn’t expecting that. Still, something in him lights up too. He works his jaw open. “Teach me— where? How? When?” He breathes, processing the weight of the offer. “I don’t even know your name.”  
  
The boy smiles and responds to each question in sequence. “Here, I guess, with your books, whenever you’re free,” he pauses, eyes and mouth shaping into crescents, “and Soonyoung.”  
  
Wonwoo quickly replaces the empty vials into his basket and stands, turning towards the door. Soonyoung, he says quietly to himself, likes the way that the syllables roll then settle under his breath. He smiles.  
  
“Okay.” Then he says it once more, more to himself, an assurance, “Okay. Alright, why not.” Why not? He’d finally be able to read the more difficult snare-making books on his shelf, as well as the miscellaneous others. Why not.  
  
While he’s replacing the empty vials onto his father’s shelf, Wonwoo decides it’s best to keep everything— his encounter with Soonyoung, any future encounters to come— secret. His father is growing old and has enough stress between collecting herbs and making and selling his medicines. A secret. Just between him and Soonyoung.  
  
It’s on his way back to his workshop that he realises he never introduced himself. He pushes his door open at the same time he speaks.  
  
“By the way— I didn’t mention it before, I’m Wonwoo.” But the boy’s already gone, leaving Wonwoo’s name to be carried out the open window and into the late-morning air.  
  
  


«««

  
  
Wonwoo was squinting at the pages of a little leather-bound book when the splintered voices seeped through the crack in his bedroom door. Too immersed in his story, he paid them little attention.  
  
(“He’s not a baby anymore, he’s all alone here.”)  
  
Sprawled on his mattress, Wonwoo flipped a page over with his little fingers. He liked this story so far. It was about a girl in a tower with long hair as fine as spun gold.  
  
(A tired sigh. “No. Not yet. It’s more practical to live here. And don’t you think it’s healthier here for us? For Wonwoo, and for you especially? The air is cleaner and clearer than in town.”)  
  
Wonwoo closed the book and stretched his thin limbs across the mattress. There was only one day left until he turned eight. He smiled at the thought of growing older and smarter, and moved towards the door for a mug of tea.  
  
His mother was sitting at the table across from his father, fingers fidgeting with the sleeve of her red cloak. “Maybe. Alright. But can you just think about it, please?” She slowly shifted to stand up, the air about her light and washy, “I have to leave before it’s dark. I'll see you tomorrow.”  
  
Turning, she jumped slightly upon seeing her young, curious son holding a hesitant hand against the doorframe. Then, some semblance of a reassuring smile.  
  
“Will you see me off, Wonwoo-yah? I’ll be back with your present, like I promised.”  
  
It was mid-afternoon, standing outside of the cottage with a wicker basket gripped in her hands, when she left for town. “Ma, can I come with you?” Wonwoo asked, tugging on the hollow sleeve hanging from her frame, “I want to see the building with walls made of books.”  
  
A sequence of actions. First, there was a smile, a porcelain hand cupping Wonwoo’s cheek, a light kiss on his nose. Then, words. “Next time, Wonwoo-yah. I’ll take you on your ninth birthday, alright?”  
  
The sky was the pale blue of autumn that day. Wonwoo farewelled the figure fading into the trees, and looking towards the wispy, curling clouds, made a birthday wish to see the world.  
  
  


***

   _Autumn;_

Each year in the woods, the coming of autumn signals a shift in routine. As the air begins to gain bite and stir, so too do the woodland creatures, with hundreds of flocks of birds and herds of deer migrating further south to escape the cold. Yet, Wonwoo isn't quite so lucky to move to warmer places easily; he makes do with chopping and bundling firewood to stockpile for the winter. For him, the change in season brings his leather boots trudging through fields of rusty reds marring green; trees shedding their leaves, withering and lapsing. Usually for Wonwoo, autumn is a season of fatigue. But this year, he notes, something feels different.  
  
“All that glitters is not… galled?” Seated on his workbench stool, Wonwoo adjusts his glasses and squints at the sepia pages of a little book. More books are splayed across the hardwood table, his tools all pushed to one corner. Soonyoung, seated beside him on a creaking chair permanently brought in from the kitchen, leans over and points a finger at the sentence.  
  
“Close. It’s ‘all that glitters is not gold’— gold as in the metal. It sort of means, like… just because something’s shiny, it doesn’t mean it’s actually gold.”  
  
Wonwoo etches an annotation beside the sentence. “So, a metaphor? That things aren’t always how they seem to be on the outside?”  
  
Soonyoung hums. “Yeah, I guess. I usually wouldn’t teach Shakespeare to a beginner, but our selection’s limited." He props his chin up with his hand and smiles. "I don’t want you getting too clever, overtaking my grand intelligence and all.”  
  
Wonwoo smiles back. Then, a smug singsong, “Better a witty fool than a foolish wit.” This earns him a gentle push to the shoulder and he exaggerates falling off his stool. Soonyoung laughs.  
  
“Ah, look at this genius. Learning so fast and using Shakespeare against me.” And that isn’t a joke, or even an exaggeration. In the month or so that Soonyoung has known him, Wonwoo has already advanced to a stage where he can read an entire book by himself— albeit those for children. He doesn’t mention that he’s been staying up each night studying, eyes straining on pages palely lit by an oil lamp and faint moonlight, the next day enjoying the swell in his chest when Soonyoung’s impressed by his improvement.  
  
“You better watch out,” Wonwoo scoffs cooly as he clambers back onto his stool. “So how did Soonyoung gain his _grand intelligence_? I may not know anyone else my age but from what I’ve read most teenagers don’t read Shakespeare in their spare time.”  
  
Soonyoung stands to replace the book onto its shelf. “Natural-born talent. This shelf is so dusty, you shouldn’t treat your books like this. And ah, I swear, if I catch you propping up your stool with a book again—”  
  
Wonwoo has begun to notice this thing Soonyoung does. He notices because his father does it too: he deflects. Whenever he is asked a question that edges towards the personal, the private, he'll smoothly but suddenly change topics. He'll keep his words light and fun, but his heart always at arm’s length— and Wonwoo notices. He notices but doesn’t push, because he knows that some things are best left with time.  
  
“So you’ve really never lived anywhere except for the woods? Don’t you get bored?” Soonyoung’s sitting on the floor now, leaning his back on the side of the bookshelf. His hair has grown longer. Wonwoo can see the longest part reaching about the bottom of his neck, and though it’s shaggy, it suits him.  
  
“Yes, and no. Apparently I was born in town, but I was so young when we moved here that I can’t remember any of it.” He begins to carefully stack the spread books into a neat corner. He looks to his tools that lately have been collecting dust. “And no, I don’t get bored. I look after the cottage and my father mainly, but I make hunting traps and snares too. My father sells them at the town market, when he sells his medicine.”  
  
Soonyoung raises an eyebrow. “Traps? That’s violent.”  
  
“Well, it’s a violent world.”  
  
“How would you know if you haven’t seen it?”  
  
For a moment, Wonwoo pauses. How would he? He stares at his hands as if the answer is hidden somewhere between his forefinger and his thumb. “I, um— I guess—” He fixes his pile of books so that they’re sitting neatly at the end of his table, so close to the edge that they might topple over at the nudge of a hip. “I don’t know. But I do know that it’s safer here. I have to check your leg, since the wound closed up last week it should just be scarring now.” Wonwoo zips over to his father’s workshop and back, Soonyoung’s question loitering about the gaps in his mind. How would he?  
  
He sits on the floor beside Soonyoung, who is now wearing his green cloak to protect himself from the late-afternoon chill. He unravels the bandage from Soonyoung’s calf, taking care to watch his face for any signs of discomfort. He always tries to hide his pain. Wonwoo glances up, but Soonyoung’s eyes are still and trained on the open window— perhaps he has to leave soon, Wonwoo thinks, he always leaves before it’s dark— clumpy bangs almost touching his eyelashes. There’s almost an indigo tint to his hair, Wonwoo notes. It looks nice. The bandage is off now so he inspects the wound— and he was right, only a thin red scar encircles Soonyoung’s calf. He begins applying a cool ointment to the marred skin.  
  
A breeze moves through the window and it carries a curling amber leaf with it. It’s already mid-autumn now, yet the nightmare hasn’t come. This surprises Wonwoo, and though he’s definitely not enthusiastic for its return— he could never be— it’s almost as if the longer it takes to appear, the more the anxiety pools and builds in the pit of his stomach. Creeping, sneaking, unexpected. Trapped.  
  
“Do you?”  
  
“Huh?” Wonwoo snaps out of his reverie. “Sorry, what?”  
  
Soonyoung is looking at him now, face an empty canvas. “Do you ever want to leave this place? Like, do you like it here?”  
  
Questions.  
  
“I don’t know. The woods are all I’ve ever known.”  
  
  


«««

  
  
“Pa, why do we live here?”  
  
“Hm?” Wonwoo’s father, who had been transferring a herby green liquid from a filter into a vial, paused his actions. Carefully placing his apparatus onto the workbench before him, he turned in his stool, pushed his spectacles a smidge down his nose, and then inspected his small son seated on the dusty floor. “Sorry, Wonwoo, what did you say?”  
  
Eyes squinted in concentration, Wonwoo’s forehead was almost touching the pages of a little book trimmed with blue swirls. It was the story of the shipwrecked boy his mother had read— a faded thing, well-thumbed, though too difficult for Wonwoo to understand alone. He tilted the book at an angle as if it would make the words tip out of the pages and into his brain. “King Arthur and his knights live in Camelot castle and the poor shoemaker lives with his wife in town. Why do we live here?”  
  
His father blinked, greying hair poking like straw from the sides of his head. “What about Robin Hood, Wonwoo? He lives in a forest too.”  
  
“But Robin Hood travels far away with his merry men.”  
  
“Well, Snow White lives in the woods with the seven dwarfs.”  
  
“The prince takes her to the castle at the end.”  
  
Wonwoo’s father took his spectacles off and rubbed his eyes. “They aren't real people, Wonwoo. You're a real boy.” He looked down at his son, tone neutral but a tired crease denting between his brows. “Aren’t you happy here?”  
  
The young boy slowly placed the book in his lap, thinking. “I’m with you and Ma, so I’m happy.” He paused. “But what about the building with walls made of books? And the place where there’s so much water that it won't even fit in a bucket?” He said, “I want to see everything.”  
  
There was a moment of silence. Wonwoo’s father glanced from his son, limbs thin and small, to outside the window, where the brittle trees were shedding red and shaking in the wind. He slowly turned his spectacles over and over in his hands. Questions. Then, placing them back on his face, he looked back at his son, with a book in his lap and whose young eyes were already so sharp and curious, and he felt something in himself crack.  
  
“Okay. When Ma gets back tomorrow I’ll talk to her about going on a family trip.”  
  
Wonwoo’s mouth dropped a little before flashing a grin. “Thank you, Pa.” He crossed his arms over his chest and said, “I’m nearly eight, you know, I can take on the world.”  
  
  


»»»

  
  
Soonyoung and Wonwoo decide to have a lesson outside one day. It’s surprisingly warm for a late-autumn’s afternoon and there’s something about the air that neither of them can ignore— perhaps it’s the smell of the recently rained-upon leaves after the month-long dry spell. They’re seated side-by-side on an old garden bench, Soonyoung cross-legged and hugging his cloak to his body and Wonwoo slouching elbows-to-knees into his book. Its cover is trimmed with faded blue swirls, inked pages faint and crisp, and Wonwoo feels a vague sense of familiarity after finishing the first chapter.  
  
“Do you believe in magic?”  
  
Eyes still fixed on the open page, Wonwoo slowly turns his head towards the round voice beside him. “Hm? Magic? Like, ‘double double toil and trouble’ magic?” He flips the page over.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
There’s a hanging silence after Soonyoung speaks, and it’s enough to draw Wonwoo out of his book and look to the boy beside him. He’s doing that thing again, Wonwoo notes, where he stares into something and nothing all at once. His eyes are trained to the clouds this time, a curling and wispy white against the pale autumn sky. Wonwoo clears his throat and speaks. “Um, I don’t know. I don’t think I’ve learnt enough about...” He thinks “... _things_ to know if it’s real or not.” He pushes his glasses up his nose bridge. “But from what I’ve read, it seems like magic only stirs up trouble. I don’t know if I want to believe in it.”  
  
There’s sudden movement in the distant sky that Soonyoung’s eyes flick towards, fluttering black specks. “Sometimes not wanting to believe isn’t enough,” he mutters, eyes following the flock of starlings flowing in waves across the sky. They swivel and turn, folding over and about the light air before disappearing into the distant trees.  
  
Soonyoung blinks. Then, he raises his arms high for an exaggerated stretch and says more loudly, “like you getting through that whole chapter by yourself. Ah, I really can’t believe it.” He looks at Wonwoo, rounded teeth visible and shaping a triangle smile. Wonwoo sends a smile back and turns to lean his face on his wrist, praying that the pink he feels grazing his ears isn’t noticeable.  
  
They sit in a comfortable silence for a while, Soonyoung staring into the trees and humming an old tune Wonwoo had taught him while the other continues reading. When Wonwoo notices the sky begin to paint purple and feels a chill creeping up his neck, he slots a quill between the open pages of his book and closes it shut.  
  
He glances to the cloak-wrapped boy beside him, noticing black hair tucked behind his ear that was once only centimetres long but now almost touches his shoulders. He reaches to grip a clump and twist it in his fingers, pokes his pinky into the side of Soonyoung’s neck and speaks. “Hey, Rapunzel— why don’t you see your town’s barbershop?” His mind flicks back to the serial Soonyoung brought him last week and quickly adds, “but not one like Sweeney Todd. Just a regular barber. That cuts hair. Not limbs.”  
  
Soonyoung rolls his eyes but doesn’t pull away from Wonwoo’s hand. “Like you can talk. You’ve got one of the worst haircuts I’ve seen,” he raises an eyebrow at the bluntly-cut tufts of hair poking about Wonwoo’s head and says, “it’s like you cut your hair blindfolded.”  
  
Wonwoo huffs at that because it may as well be true. There’s only one mirror in the entire cottage— a murky, smudged and cracked one at that— and a blunt pair of scissors to use to cut his hair. It had never occurred to him how much hair even mattered until he learnt about it from his books and Soonyoung’s constant teasing.  
  
“We should get a haircut together,” Wonwoo jokes with a smile, hand pulling Soonyoung’s forearm, “let’s go.”  
  
Soonyoung looks up and eyes Wonwoo curiously for a moment, then stands and pulls forward. “Alright. Let’s go, right now.”  
  
“ _What_?” Wonwoo splutters.  
  
Soonyoung smirks a little. “You said it. Let’s go into town together and get a haircut.”  
  
Wonwoo feels a small wave of nerves. “Um, that was a joke. Sarcasm, humour.” He laughs lightly. “I was joking.” He feels Soonyoung quickly slip out of his loosened grip and shift so that he's now the one gripping Wonwoo’s arm, heaving him up and forwards. “Come on, big boy, it’s time for your haircut—”  
  
“Um—”  
  
“ _Come on_ —”  
  
“ _Nope_ —” Wonwoo says and pulls back just a little too hard, sending himself and Soonyoung toppling onto the pale grass. “— _Ow_!” He groans, lying limp on his back on the ground.  
  
His eyes open to his glasses halfway down his head, half of a blurry green heap lying flat on his chest. He pushes his glasses back up and glances down. “Soonyoung-ah?”  
  
He hears a dull groan. “Okay, no haircuts.” Soonyoung reaches a hand up to rub at the back of his neck, not bothering to move away. Wonwoo doesn’t push him off either. He’s warmer like that anyway, he thinks.  
  
He shifts both of his hands to rest under his head. They stay like that for a while, Wonwoo looking up into the deepening-purple sky and Soonyoung laying with crossed arms against his top. Eventually, Wonwoo huffs overdramatically, eyeing a lone bird melting into the distant custard clouds. “It would be so easy to be a bird.”  
  
Soonyoung props his chin up. “Why’s that?”  
  
“No haircuts.”  
  
They laugh.  
  
  
(That early-evening, as he walks into the tall trees, Soonyoung can’t help himself. He pauses for a moment, then looks back. “Wonwoo-yah?”  
  
Wonwoo turns around, halfway through the cottage door. His eyes search the trees. “Yes?”  
  
There’s a pause, and Soonyoung presses his lips. Eventually, he calls out, “I wasn’t joking either. We can go one day, you and me. Somewhere far.”  
  
Somewhere far? Wonwoo’s eyes make out a vague shape of green and black, two dark eyes poking out from the shadows. He blinks.  
  
“Somewhere far,” Wonwoo breathes, “what do you mean? As in, like, Romeo and Juliet?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
His hand slips off the door handle. Wonwoo blinks again, searching the pale face that’s quickly melting into the dark. He searches for glints of emotions, traces of something— but there’s only a sincerity in the gloss of his eyes that Wonwoo can’t ignore. Reaching. He bites his tongue. Then he breathes.  
  
“Maybe.”)  
  
  


«««

  
  
The sky was dusky and swirling on the morning of Wonwoo’s eighth birthday.  
  
His father woke him up with a kiss on his nose and a little oval box enwrapped with paper and twine. Inside, a pair of silver-framed glasses. “Like father like son,” he said, ruffling Wonwoo’s hair, “poor eyesight included. Ma will be back with your other present soon.” Wonwoo smiled and placed the oversized frames on his face.  
  
Half of the day passed without much noise. Wonwoo liked his new glasses but continued squinting out of habit.  
  
It wasn’t until mid-afternoon that his father’s uneasy pacing back and forth flicked into a panicked frenzy. Wonwoo was playing with wooden jigsaw pieces at the kitchen table, feet barely touching the ground, when his cloaked father pushed out of his workshop with a wicker basket. Wonwoo turned his head at the sound of clinking glass and swooshing liquid as the tall man strode across the room.  
  
“Wonwoo, I need you to sit here for a little bit, alright? I’ll be back soon.”  
  
Wonwoo noticed the creases marring his father’s usual poker face. He swallowed but nodded his head. “Um, okay…” It would be his first time alone. His father waved goodbye, and then he was gone.  
  
Wonwoo sat and waited. There was a clear view of the cottage’s front window from the kitchen table. He watched as the shadows slowly trickled across the room, from the window, until they reached his feet. A chill nipped at his toes and he jerked his head up at the sound of crunching leaves, a dark figure emerging from the trees and drifting towards the cottage.  
  
Creaking wood. Wonwoo pushed out of his chair and towards the front door. He looked out into the thickening evening air at his father. “Pa?” He called out. No response. “Where’s Ma? Is she still at the bookshop?” Still no response. Wonwoo stepped forward hesitantly, bare feet scratching against the fallen autumn leaves. He reached a hand to the figure and let out a breath. “Pa? Where’s Ma?”  
  
The man fell to his knees on the dirt, shaking hands clutching a crumpled red cloak and a little book trimmed with silver swirls. Words are whispers in the dark. “She’s gone. The world opened up and swallowed her whole.”  
  
“Huh?” Wonwoo let out, scratched. “What do you mean?”  
  
But there were only heavy lungs and smothered breaths. The rustle of leaves and a slithering breeze.  
  
Wonwoo stumbled back. Then, he pushed towards the trees and ran.  
  
  


»»»

  
  
It isn’t until the second last week of autumn that Wonwoo begins to realise the irregularity in his father’s returns from town: his routine day trips of the past crumbling into days of absence and sporadic early-morning arrivals, feet stumbling, tumbling through the door with sleeves soaked sour. Wonwoo shakes his head and spits, questioning how he never noticed.  
  
“Pa, have you been drinking again?”  
  
A stale sigh falls out of the old man’s lips, stubby silver hairs settling around the creases in his cheeks. The vial-filled basket he brought into town has also returned just as full as it was days prior. “Wonwoo. You don’t understand.”  
  
Wonwoo furrows his eyebrows. He lets go of his bitten tongue. “What don’t I understand?” He spits, syllables sharp but rounded out with concern, “or, how could I? You barely talk to me anymore, or come home.” He eyes the full basket that his father grips. “What are you even doing while you’re gone?” There’s another sigh. Wonwoo wants to grip the sound between this teeth and rip it in two.  
  
“It’s been tough lately. People aren’t buying herbal medicine anymore, there’s newer technology, cheaper alternatives.” He runs blistered fingers through tufts of grey hair, spectacles drooping with the skin of his face. His eyes suddenly widen. “How are you feeling, Wonwoo? Have you been drinking your tea?”  
  
Wonwoo ignores him. “I’m not a boy anymore, Pa. I can go into town too and work my share. You don’t have to keep the burden on yourself.”  
  
His father’s eyebrows dart up and down then up again and he shakes his head, keeps shaking it, stumbling backwards until his back thumps against the front door. A vial collides with another and shatters. “No— No, definitely not. You have to stay here Wonwoo— it isn’t safe for you out there. You have to stay here.”  
  
Wonwoo steps forward, reaching. “Pa, I’m almost eighteen, it’s nearly been ten years. I’ll be ok, what happened to Ma—”  
  
A blistered fist pounding wood. “ _No_!” The intensity makes Wonwoo flinch. His fingers slowly curl back.  
  
His father’s eyes twitch, then widen and soften. “No,” he says more softly. There’s a last sigh, this time weighted with finality. “I’m going. I’ll be back,” his hand feels behind him for the door handle, “sometime this week. Be careful, Wonwoo. Be safe.” Nothing else is said before he’s gone.  
  


*

  
“What’s up?”  
  
“Mm?”  
  
Soonyoung worries his lip at Wonwoo’s deflated form, chest and elbows slumped on his workbench and a book loosely held mere centimetres from his nose. “Are you alright? You haven’t moved past the first page.”  
  
“Yeah,” he mumbles, “I know how to read.”  
  
“That’s not what I meant.” Soonyoung hesitates at first but places a hand on Wonwoo’s slouched back. “What’s up?” Grumbles. A sigh.  
  
“I… I had an argument with my father.”  
  
He leaves it at that. He doesn't know— he _never_ knows— what Soonyoung’s thinking, but he can almost hear the worried whirring of his brain. “Ah, do you… do you want to talk about it?”  
  
No, Wonwoo thinks. But he puts down the book, a dusty thing he found while cleaning his father’s bedroom, and talks anyway.  
  
“— so that’s what happened.” He raises both hands to his temples and rubs. Soonyoung’s hand is still sitting sympathetically on his back. “He doesn't think I can handle myself out there. I wasn’t sure at first, either, but if the world is anything like it is in books then it can’t be half-bad.” He sighs. “I think he’s worried that… the world will take me too.” He side-glances at Soonyoung. _Too_? His eyes seem to say.  
  
Wonwoo traces his fingers lightly around the dull silver swirls of the book beneath his hand. “My mother was always sickly. I only realised it later, of course, looking back. She had these breathing issues. I have them too, but mine aren’t as serious.” He blinks. “Pa never told me how she— what happened, but from piecing together memories it seems like the air around here was healthier for her. So, that day that she— maybe the walk back from town was too much, or the air was too cold, or she didn't have her medicine on hand—” He feels a hand patting his back, rubbing soothing circles.  
  
“Wonwoo. Wonwoo-yah? It’s okay.”  
  
“Huh?” Wonwoo opens his eyes and feels a few trickles stinging his cheeks. He opens his eyes wider and rubs at his face, embarrassed.  
  
Soonyoung gnaws at his bottom lip. He breathes lightly, then speaks softly. “You… you could still go.” He pauses. “Your father wouldn't have to know that you're working in town. You said he barely comes back nowadays? Then he wouldn't find out. I can show you around different places, you’d like it there—” Wonwoo shakes his head and pulls away from Soonyoung’s hand.  
  
“I _can’t_! If he ever noticed I was gone, he would, he would—” His voice quiets, “I’m all he has left.” Out of nowhere, something inside Wonwoo clicks. And snaps. “Soonyoung, is that it? Is that why you asked me to go, that evening, why you’ve been teaching me to read? To poison my mind, become addicted to the world?”  
  
Soonyoung flinches. “No, Wonwoo, listen, you’re not— that’s not what I—” A wooden stool grates against the floor, a back turns.  
  
“Can you leave? I need to be alone.”  
  
There’s a push, a gust, and by the time he turns around Soonyoung is gone.  
  


*

  
The nightmare finally comes that night.  
  
Wonwoo would have scoffed at the irony if he wasn’t thrashing about his bed, chest pounding and palms sweating, a wind-like chill whipping his skin raw. His lungs are at maximum capacity and about to burst, running, running, feet bare against the course autumn ground. The air grows darker every second and a blackbird cries somewhere in the trees. His head whips to the side and spots a tree he swears he passed five minutes ago, keeps running, only to pass it once more five minutes later. But he doesn’t stop, lost and afraid, stuck in a loop, and it’s only when his sleeve snags on a branch and he falls to the dirt that he jerks out of the dream, body shooting up and upright so he can clutch at his knees. He heaves.  
  
He wonders if he yelled this time too. When he was younger his father caught him screaming random things, names usually, but sometimes single words. Help. Lost. Trapped. He trembles. Not that it even matters, for there’s no one around to hear his screams.  
  
There’s a little metal _clicking_ against his barely-open window.  
  
He freezes. His shaken eyes dart about the room for something to wield, but the thickness is too dark and without his glasses his sight is too bleared to see. His insides collapse when shadowed fingers slip beneath the window pane and try to push it up.  
  
“Wonwoo-yah?”  
  
He chokes in a breath. Soonyoung? He thinks at first, then barely audibly repeats himself aloud. The window pushes up fully with a _thud_ and a gush of cold air whirls into the room along with a heavily panting Soonyoung, hair wind-whipped and clumping about his face. “Soonyoung?”  
  
Soonyoung breathes for a moment before turning to Wonwoo’s terror-stricken face, inhaling sharply at the porcelain of his skin. “Wonwoo? Oh god. I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have left.” He takes a step forward before he freezes, but when he looks to Wonwoo nothing is said, so he continues.  
  
He sits hesitantly on the edge of the mattress, hand flinching at the iciness of Wonwoo’s arm. “What happened? I heard you yelling my name. Oh god, you’re so cold.” He lights the oil lamp beside Wonwoo’s bed and brings it to his fingers, dull heat radiating and starting to grow. “What happened? I’m so sorry.”  
  
Wonwoo’s breathing is still shaky but begins to even. “I… there’s this recurring dream I get every year.” He sags, heart beating in his throat. “It started… not long after my mother died. It always returns in the weeks leading up to my birthday. Like a curse.” There’s a sour taste coating his tongue and throat and he spits to the side.  
  
Through blurred vision, Wonwoo looks to the green-cloaked figure seated on the edge of his mattress. “You don’t have to do this for me, but. Can you stay, for a bit? I hate being alone.”  
  
Soonyoung laughs lightly but not unkindly. “God Wonwoo-yah, you’re so dumb. Of course I will.” He breathes in the quiet darkness, thinking. “Okay. Alright. How about I talk, tell you a story until you calm and fall asleep? My father did that when I was little. You don't have to listen, just… relax.” He places the lamp on the floor beside them and shifts so he’s lying beside Wonwoo. Then, he presses Wonwoo’s head to his chin and feels the straw-soft tufts beneath, smooths it down and away with his worries. “Okay,” he says again, more to himself.  
  
“Once, there was a young boy. He was born into a wealthy family, along with his little brother. They lived in a big house in a rustic little town not too different from the ones around here.” He smiles tiredly.  
  
“His parents were intelligent people, well-educated, and expected a lot from their sons as well. They put them into classes from a very young age, literature when they were young then business and economics as they grew older.” He squints. “But the older son hated it. He didn’t want to become an intendent, or a director, or any kind of businessman. He wanted to be a painter.”  
  
“Yet the son knew his parents wouldn’t allow it. Artists live on crumbs, they had said, and they wouldn’t allow an embarrassment like that taint their family name. But it was the boy’s passion and he could never see himself doing anything else.”  
  
“One day, not long after the boy turned seventeen, his parents told him that he would be sent to a business school in the far-off city. He was shattered.” Soonyoung stares into the dark at nothing in particular. “The night before he was to be sent away, there was a crazy storm. The boy hoped that he would be able to slip away during the commotion and run away to another town, where he could be free to pursue his dreams.”  
  
“As he was running through the rain, he knocked over an old peasant woman begging for money. Before he turned the corner of the street, she called out his name and said she could make his dreams come true. She could help him be free.” Soonyoung held his breath for a beat, then continued. “Desperate and not thinking straight, he accepted the deal. With a snap of her fingers there was a flash of light from the sky, the boy’s limbs shrinking tenfold and turning black and silver and green, feathers growing where hair once was.”  
  
“Scared, the boy fled away from the cackling woman towards the nearby woods where no one could see him. He had been tricked, his new power both a blessing and a curse. It’s easy to flee from responsibility when you have wings.” A sad laugh.  
  
“The boy would roam from town to town, but lurked about his house each night to make sure his little brother was alright. He felt too guilty about abandoning him to paint, but also too guilty to return home. A real coward.” There’s a long silence, and Soonyoung finds his breath caught in his throat, not knowing what to say next. He’s just about to leave, soft breathing making him believe Wonwoo’s no longer awake, when a voice rounded out with sleep slips out. “I don’t know, I don’t think the boy was a coward. Afraid, maybe, but not without cause.” A mumbling yawn. “It sounds like the boy’s parents loved their son a lot. They wouldn’t’ve had cruel intentions. They must miss him a lot.”  
  
“You don’t need wings to be free. Maybe if the boy tries talking to his parents again, after their distance, they can start to see eye-to-eye. It’d be more practical than giving up.” A final yawn. “The boy could try bringing a friend along for support.”  
  
Soonyoung’s eyes widen then soften. He breathes. “I mean, yeah. I guess it’s worth a shot.” Then he quickly adds, “for the boy, that is. Hypothetically.” Wonwoo lets out a sleep-weighted laugh and pulls Soonyoung in closer. “Of course it’s a good idea. I’m a genius.” Two noses scrunch in the dark and fall asleep not long after.  
  
  


«««

  
  
“The end.”  
  
“ _The end_?” Wonwoo frowned, turning in his mother’s arms at the same time the soft _thud_ of a closing book sounded about the room. As he shifted his small body the fireplace crackled and touched his cheeks. “That’s the end of the book, Wonwoo-yah. Now it’s time to sleep.”  
  
“But what happens next? Do they escape?” Wonwoo twisted his lips. “I don’t like this story.” He felt a gentle hand curl over his cheek. He pouted at it but didn’t move away.  
  
“My curious little boy.” She smiled. “You’ll find out next time. Maybe not now, but one day. Be patient.” He frowned into her sweet-scented hair, eyes drooping with sleep, then grumbled, “fine. Night, Ma. I love you.” The flicking off of a lamp, then a weightless body lifting.  
  
“Good night Wonwoo-yah. I love you too.”  
  
  


»»»

  
  
“Are you sure you’re ready?”  
  
Soonyoung places a hand on the cloaked shoulder of the man beside him, who is currently staring poker-faced at a leafy dirt path. He somehow hears Soonyoung’s voice and is brought back to earth. “I am, yeah. I know I am.”  
  
So they start walking, quietly and leisurely, the early morning sun leaking through the canopy and pecking the frosty ground. A soft, round voice. “Lemme know if you ever start to feel… off, okay? We’ll cut it short and just make it a day trip.” Soonyoung turns his head to read Wonwoo’s face. He sees him give a small smile, a hint of uncertainty visible, but appreciative nonetheless. “Yeah, thanks.”  
  
They continue, the damp ground beneath them moulding to and muting out the sound of their boots. Most creatures have left by now, the ones remaining still drowsy with slumber. Just another late-autumn morning in the woods.  
  
(“‘The room with walls made of books?’” He laughs, the sound jumping about the room. “Yeah, we can see a library. After our haircut. But the ocean will have to wait for another day, for a longer trip in spring or summer.”)  
  
As they walk down the path, side-by-side, their hips bump and brush. It’s constant and rhythmic, reassuring.  
  
(“And your brother, and parents?”  
  
A pause. Lips press then slowly part, let out a light exhale of air.  
  
“Yeah, we’ll see them too.)  
  
When they reach the halfway mark Soonyoung stops, and his eyes widen. “Oh, god. Happy birthday, by the way. I knew it was today but—” Wonwoo lightly bumps his hipbone against Soonyoung’s. “Hey, it's ok.” Then he smiles. “I’ll still accept late presents.”  
  
Soonyoung looks up at him. Wonwoo looks back, breath catching at the gloss and shine of his eyes.  
  
Then, he watches parted lips shift into a small smirk. (Wonwoo will never, _ever_ get used to how quickly he switches.) He stands up on his tiptoes and presses onto the curling corner of Wonwoo’s lips, lingering for a few seconds to mutter, “there.” It makes Wonwoo stumble a step, catching his balance with one hand on a tree trunk and gripping Soonyoung’s hand with the other. “Wow. Okay. I accept.” They laugh.  
  
They’re still holding hands as they make their way along the overgrown woodland path, the tops of wooden buildings beginning to peek out from the distance. When they almost reach the end, Wonwoo halts.  
  
“Wonwoo?” Soonyoung turns, worry quick to knit his brow.  
  
But Wonwoo’s just staring. Rows upon rows of auburn and cream buildings freckle the rustic little town as far as his eyes can see. The incoming breath of winter frosts the housetops, the morning sun catching and reflecting back onto the cobblestone streets. Men with puffy brown hats in horse carts chug along the roads, loads filled to the brim with winter roots and citrus fruits. A rooster calls from a farm between the town and the woods, a man with a wide hat tipping a bucket of colourful scraps into a nearby coop. Wonwoo spies two birds darting about the sky and breathes, likening himself to them, the way they glide and tumble freely about the fresh morning’s air.  
  
He sucks in a breath. “It’s beautiful.”  
  
Soonyoung turns to the man beside him, heart filling from the wonder he sees in his bright, spectacled eyes and his wide, childlike smile. He is still staring at Wonwoo when he speaks.  
  
“Yeah.” He laughs, tears stinging at his eyes. “Yeah, it really is.”  
  
  


***

  
  
Somewhere in the woods, inside an empty cobblestone cottage, there is a workbench covered in knobby glass vials of various sizes. On it, a scrawled note sits atop a book trimmed with silver swirls.  
  
_Pa,  
  
I don’t know when you will read this  
But please don’t worry about me.  
It's my birthday. I’ve grown up  
I made a friend (you would like him)  
The nightmares stopped,  
Ma’s present finally reached me  
And I’m not scared anymore.  
I’m ready to see the world  
  
I’ll be back soon. I promise.  
  
-Wonwoo  
(P.S. Yes, I drank my tea.)_

**Author's Note:**

> ......... i'm like a bird, naragalge?  
>  (art by me.)  
> (also, if you haven't seen a starling murmuration before it's a rly [chilling & beautiful phenomenon](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V4f_1_r80RY).)  
> (also also, a [cute visual differentiation between blackbirds and starlings](https://www.rspb.org.uk/kids-and-schools/kids-at-school/schools-birdwatch/schoolbirds/tellingbirdsapart/starlings.aspx) that i came across while writing this.)  
> (zzzzz i hope this was an enjoyable read!)


End file.
